


story written on skin

by Patrocool (all_the_homo)



Series: in blood or ink [1]
Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Canon Era, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Pre-Canon, Racism, Romantic Soulmates, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, The Refuge, also i have a handful of OCs as background newsies, its very brief ad vague no more than a sentence promise, like race gets beat up a few times, mostly musical newsies, ut i stole boots mush blink and a few others from the movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2019-01-22 05:11:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12474232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/all_the_homo/pseuds/Patrocool
Summary: More often than not, Race was covered in bruises.Most of the time, it was his own bruises. Until he was about nine years old, it was his own parents who inflicted them upon him; after that, it was from him getting into fights.But he woke up with a lot of bruises that weren't his too. They were his soulmate's. He knew that his bruises appeared on someone else’s skin, and that person was supposedly his soulmate.(When he turned fourteen and realized he didn’t like girls like he was supposed to, that he had been corrupted by Satan like his father had always said, he broke down crying in his bunk.That was the day he decided that he never wanted to meet his soulmate, knowing he would never be able to love whatever girl’s bruises matched his own, not in the way that she would want.)***Race is happy to never meet his soulmate, but when he does, it's a mess.





	story written on skin

**Author's Note:**

> wowza, ive been working on this for about a month (??) and i originally thought it was going to be around 2-5k tops.
> 
> jokes on me, i guess.
> 
> im sorry this is such a mess tbh, its hard to create a summery for something when its like,,,, well,,,, this. anyways.
> 
> shout out to the newsies kik group chat for letting me scream about my boys!!!
> 
> Possible TWs:
> 
> violence  
> racism  
> implied abuse  
> lots of talk of injuries  
> brief (one sentence brief) mention of self harm and death idealization  
> illness  
> period typical homophobia
> 
> i cant think of anything else but if i missed anything please tell me.
> 
> enjoy!

More often than not, Race was covered in bruises.

Most of the time, it was his own bruises. Until he was about nine years old, it was his own parents who inflicted them upon him; after that, it was from him getting into fights.

But he woke up with a lot of bruises that weren't his too. They were his soulmate's. He knew that his bruises appeared on someone else’s skin, and that person was supposedly his soulmate.

(When he turned fourteen and realized he didn’t like girls like he was supposed to, that he had been corrupted by Satan like his father had always said, he broke down crying in his bunk.

That was the day he decided that he never wanted to meet his soulmate, knowing he would never be able to love whatever girl’s bruises matched his own, not in the way that she would want.)

He did his best to ignore the marks. He made up stories for the scars his soulmate gained, pretending he didn’t have one at all. He figured it’d be better to be soulmate-less than have a soulmate who he would never love.

Racetrack put all soulmate related thoughts in a box in his mind, locking it tight and refusing to open it ever again. He then plastered on a smile and tried to hide in plain sight.

*****

Racetrack groaned as hands shook his shoulders, rousing him from his sleep. Albert smirked at him, one of Race’s cigars hanging from his lips. “Ay, someone oughta kick yah out, you been sleep talkin’ again,” he taunted, jabbing Race’s ribs with his fingers to make sure he was up. 

Race scowled and snatched his cigar from Albert, shoving the shorter boy off of him and onto the floor with a loud thump. “Someone oughta kick you’se out for bein’ a nuisance!” 

Albert cackled and scrambled to his feet. “Oh, boo, Racey’s in a bad mood.”

He groaned and combed his fingers through his greasy blonde curls, repressing the urge to throttle Albert then and there. Lucky for Albert, Boots picked up on the tension and headed over, shooing Albert away to go wake Specs, Skittery and Romeo. 

“Thanks, Boots,” Race murmured, standing up and stretching with a satisfying pop of his back. Boots grinned and tossed him his pants. 

“Take me tah Sheepshead wit’ yah, and we’s call it even,” he offered teasingly. 

Race snorted and pulled on his pants, buttoning them and pulling his softest blue checkered shirt on. “Righ’, o’ course. Y’know, if yah wanted to come so bad, yah coulda jist’ asked.” 

The ten-year-old beamed, eyes lit up. “Yah mean it? Last time yah said no!”

He ruffled his hair, smirking. “Last time you asked, you’se was nine, Hats was still King of Brooklyn, an’ I wasn’ supposed’tah be there. Now I’s got permission from Spot Conlon, and you ain’t gonna get hurt if we’s get caught. Now, go tell Specs and Jack I’m takin’ yah today so they’s don’ worry, yeah?”

Boots nodded eagerly and rushed off, leaving Race to comb his hair, grab a cigar, his hat and lace up his shoes. 

He lit a match to light his cigar only to feel someone slap the back of his head. He whirled around, ready to punch whoever put out his match, only to face Kid Blink, who put out the match with his fingers. 

“You know the rules, Racetrack,” Blink said, grabbing the cigar and tucking it into Race’s pocket. “No smokin’ when Mush is here, he can’t breathe with that shit.” 

Race blinked. “Shit, I thought you’se and Mush was spendin’ the night out by the harbor.”

Blink shook his head. “We seed the bulls down there. They’s were doin’ checks and we didn’ want to risk nothin’. Jacky spotted us a few pennies to stay here. He didn’ want us to go to da Refuge.”

Race softened and patted his shoulder. “You’se two betta not get locked up, Blink, I’m warnin’ yah. You’se two my favorite people tah play poker wit’. It ain’t much fun witsout’cha.” 

Blink smiled faintly. “Sap,” he commented before heading downstairs, knowing full well that Racetrack would miss them for far more than their weekly poker games.

He huffed and grabbed his little pouch of coins from underneath his pillow, counting enough for his papes and a lunch. He didn’t usually eat until supper, but he figured he could splurge a little since he had Boots with him. Enough for some bread and soup to split, and some water to keep the kid hydrated or whatever.

Almost as soon as he was done counting out coins, Jack, Crutchie and Boots all came in, the latter chattering away excitedly, Jack smiling fondly. “Alright, alright, kid, calm down. I already said yah could go with Race, you don’ gotta convince me. Go to the gates with Crutchie, Race and I’s gonna meetcha there.”

Boots bobbed his head obediently, and grabbed Crutchie’s hand, tugging him towards the door, Crutchie following with a soft laugh.

Jack watched him go and turned back to Race, who looked at him expectantly. Jack wouldn’t’ve sent them ahead if there wasn’t something he didn’t want Boots (and possibly Crutchie, though he doubted it) to know.

“Jist’ be careful, ‘kay?” Jack said quietly. “I normally wouldn’t be too worried about it, but I’ve heerd rumors that some newsies from the Queens are getting angry at Brooklyn, and I don’t want you getting’ mixed in with that, ‘specially not with Boots. Y’know how folk are around colored kids, and I don’t want him getting’ hurt.” He sighed softly. “I might jistt be paranoid after what happened to Specs and Romeo last week, but it scared me. It isn’t that bad most of the time, but times are changin’, I can feel it, and I ain’t riskin’ the lives of my newsies.”

Race reached out to gently squeeze Jack’s bicep. “I ain’t goin’ anywhere near Queens, an’ I won’ be riskin’ nutin’ wit’ Boots with me. We’s is gonna be fine. ‘sides, that kid can run. I’d bet on him e’rytime if he was in the races, yah hear?”

Jack laughed, relief making his body slump slightly. “Shuddup, I hears yah. Thanks, Racetrack.”  
Race clicked his tongue. “’course. Now we’s better get goin’ afore the circulation gates close.”

*****

Midday met Racetrack and Boots with their feet dipped in the water off a dock and a sandwich being split between the two. Boots eagerly stuffed his face with his portion, not noticing that Race had given him a much bigger chunk. 

“How many papes yah got left, Bootsy boy?” Race asked, taking a bite of his food.

“I’s only got thirteen left, Race,” Boots said proudly. 

Race whistled lowly. “Outta fitty? That’s real impressive.”

Boots’ eyes lit up at the praise but was cut off by heavy footsteps behind them. Immediately, Boots ducked his head, knowing better than to look someone in the face unless they were a newsie.

Race stiffened, ready to protect Boots if it came down to it. He looked at the boy at his side before rising to his feet, stretching his arms out. He turned to look at the man, acting as casual as possible. “Hiya there, mista, could I interest yah in a pape? They’s found bodies in the Hudson, didja hear?”

“This ain’t a colored dock, boy. You better get that outta here afore I make you,” the man barked, pointing at Boots.

Race’s smile tightened, eyes going sharp. He wanted so bad to fight the man who dared talk about Boots like that, but he couldn’t, not in times like these when a simple rumor could get Boots locked up for good, or worse. “This ain’t a colored dock, eh? The planks is brown, ain’t they? I’d say it’s pretty colored myself. I don’t care beans, personally, but if this is how’s we gettin’ treated, we don’ wanna be here none anyway.” Race tapped Boot’s hat gently, jaw tightening when he felt him flinch. “C’mon, Boots, we’s got papes to sell.”

Boots scrambled to his feet, face down and silent. Race gently pulled him in front of him, placing himself as a barrier between the man and the young newsie. He quickly started ushering him away, but paused halfway down the dock. He glanced over his shoulder. “An’, jist’ so yah know, that has a name. He’s a parson, jist’ like you’se an’ I.”

As soon as Race heard the man growl, he knew he crossed the line. He shoved Boots ahead of him. “Run, kid, run! I ain’t lettin’ them getcha, I swear. Go get Jack, or even one of them Brooklyn boys, I’ll hold ‘im off,” he said quickly, running close behind him.

Boots looked up at him fearfully. “Race-” He choked, but Race shook his head, pushing him forward. “Go! Jistt go, Boots, don’t trust anyone but newsies, got it?” 

He nodded, looking at Racetrack for a moment longer before sprinting away. As soon as he was far enough away, Racetrack skidded to a stop and twisted around to face the man who was following him. 

“Pick on someone yer own size, why don’cha?” He demanded, smirking cockily. Jack was so going to kill him if he got out of this alive.

The man sneered, stopping in front of him. “Step aside, boy. Where did that Jim Crow go?” Racetrack noted the slight Southern accent in his voice and he realized he was probably a sailor from down south who was shipping cotton up to the textile and cotton factories in the city, which meant this man was probably a sore loser, having lost thousands of free workers.

“His name is Boots and it ain’t none of your business where he went,” Race snapped. “He’s ten-years-old, he don’ deserve any of your racist balderdash. Now, leave us alone, yah hears?”

“He’s a Negro, he needs to be dead.” The man said, voice low and dangerous. “And you need to be dead too for thinkin’ they deserve anything more. You’re no better than them.”

Race tried to back up only to have the collar of his shirt grabbed. He was suddenly being thrown against the wall, hitting his head and the air was knocked out of his lungs. He slumped to the ground, trying to catch his breath and steady his double-triple vision. He scrambled to his feet, blinking away the dizziness and whipped his fist across the man’s face, feeling a satisfying crunch underneath his knuckles but his victory was short lived as the man brought out a knife and got him in the hip. He felt something pop before pain exploded in his side and he lost his newly gained breath. He managed to bring his knee up into the man’s crotch and elbow the back of his head, but his aim was off and he barely grazed him. 

He was shoved back like a doll, hitting his head on a metal dumpster. Black spots danced in front of his eyes and his body wasn’t responding as fast as he would’ve liked. He was pretty sure the stab had dislocated his leg as well. He saw the man advance with the knife in his hand and figured that that was it. He was going to die, bleeding out in a random alleyway in Brooklyn because he called some racist asshole out on his bullshit.

He figured that was fitting, now that he thought about it. He wasn’t exactly known for his subtlety or kindness.

Racetrack closed his eyes, feeling something hot trickle down his forehead, and braced for the impact.

An impact that didn’t happen.

There was a shout and a thump and a snicker. Race cracked an eye open to see two figures bent over a fallen body, and another slowly approaching. He groaned lowly and tried to scoot back, but his limbs gave out, unable to hold his weight. The figure hurried forward and cushioned the back of his head before Race could hit it on the metal bin again. 

“Racetrack?” the boy in front of him asked quietly. “That you? We was sent by a small kid name Boots.”

“Boo’s?” Racetrack slurred, immediately sitting up, head swimming but looking desperate. “Where’s he? He o’ay?”

The kid blinked and smirked. “Yeah, he’s scared an’ upset, but okay. My firs’ lieutenant, Crunch, is lookin’ afta him. You, on the otha han’, got knocked righ’ inta a cocked hat, didn’cha? At leas’ yah ain’t as cold as a wagon tire, Kelly woulda had a conniption fit.”

The taller of the two behind them laughed. “Can yah carry ‘im, Spot?” He asked, leaning against the wall. “We’s gotta go beafore da bulls get tipped.”

The boy in front of him waved a hand in the air dismissively. “I got ‘im, Bee. You an’ Ace clean up, yeah? Stitches should be able tah fix Racetrack ‘ere.” 

Race started nodding off as soon as he learned Boots was okay, tuning everything else out. Unconsciousness tugged at him and he leaned into it, letting it cushion him and numb the pain.

Strong arms wrapped around him and something pressed against his hip. He hissed in pain, whimpering as tears welled in his eyes. Someone shushed him, cradling him gently. “Shuddap, jist’ stay awake. Yah ain’t dying on my turf, damn it.”

Racetrack grimaced, his body limp against the boy. He felt so tired and heavy and his head throbbed. He didn’t want to stay awake, he just wanted to sleep. Sharp pain shot out from his side as the boy started moving, and he whimpered weakly. The boy ignored him, moving faster and holding Race tightly. 

Race didn’t know how much time was passed until the boy finally stopped and he was carefully lowered onto what felt like a pile of straw covered with a thin blanket. He groaned lowly, wincing. He opened his eyes and tried to sit up, only to feel someone push him back down. 

“Sit down, damn it, yah tryin’ tah die?” The boy from before muttered, clearly not expecting a reply. “Stitches, tell me what tah do. He’s a ‘Hatten newsie and I don’ need a war with Kelly right now.”

Someone pressed a cool, wet cloth to his forehead, probably cleaning up the blood. “Take off his shirt an’ try to uncover that wound on his hip, will yah? We gotta stop all the bleedin’.”

Without them noticing, Race slowly slipped into unconsciousness.

*****

There was a small, thin body curled up against him when he woke up. Everything was dark, but Race could just make out Boots’ dark, close shaven hair. He slowly lifted his hand and cupped the back of the boy’s neck, needing the reminder that he was okay. 

He let out a sigh of relief as he felt Boots’ pulse against his thumb, and dropped his head and hand back.

“I tol’ you’se he was good, di’n’t i?” Someone speaks out from his other side.

Racetrack jolted in surprise, whipping his head to see who was there. He took in a sharp breath at the pain and dizziness the motion brought him, grimacing. He blinked, eyes adjusting until he could make out a boy, probably a year younger than him and a head shorter. He narrowed his eyes, looking at him carefully. Light brown skin, could probably pass as white in the right lighting, black hair, cold brown eyes. Wearing a red shirt with the sleeves ripped off and black trousers. His suspenders hung off his pants loosely.

“An’ jist’ who is you?” Racetrack said quietly, wrapping an arm around the sleeping Boots protectively. “Where is we?”

The boy raised an eyebrow. “Spot Conlon. You’se in a safe ‘ouse we use as a makeshif’ hospital.”

Racetrack blinked and studied Spot carefully. Not exactly what he expected the king of Brooklyn to look like, but he wasn’t about to tell him that. “A’ight,” he murmured after a moment. “Once dawn hits, Boots an’ I’ll be getting’ outa yah hair.” He cleared his throat quietly. “An’, uh. Thanks. Fo’ savin’ Boots here. He… He jist’ a kid. The Refuge’d destroy ‘im.” 

Spot looked at him silently, looking like he was judging if Race meant or not. Whatever he found, it softened his face slightly. “You ain’t goin’ nowhere tomorrow. You’se in no condition tah make the journey. You’se got stitches in yah side, an’ yah head isn’t lookin’ good eitha. Bee will take Boots ‘cross the bridge and tell Kelly that you’se gonna stay here fo’ a few days. No arguments.”

Race opened his mouth but a soft sound from Boots made him snap his mouth shut, immediately petting the boy’s hair to help soothe him. He knew after the day they had that Boots was probably gonna have a nightmare. “I gotcha,” he whispered, ignoring Spot for the time being. “Don’cha worry kid, I gotcha. You’se strong an’ tough, kid, but I gotcha back.”

Once Boots relaxed again, Race looked back to Spot who was watching with an unreadable expression.

Race raised his eyebrows. “You’se gonna say sometin’, or yah jist’ gonna stare?” When Spot didn’t respond, he sighed. “Wha’eva. Tell Albert tah keep ‘is grimy ‘an’s off my cigars, or ill skunk ‘im. An’ tell Mush or Blink tah bring me my cards. If I’s gonna be stuck ‘ere, I’m gonna at leas’ play some games.”

Spot snorted and leaned back against the wall. “I’ll pass the word on then,” he nodded. “Bee won’ keer none. Now, if you wanna be outta ‘ere anytime soon, I suggest yah sleep, yeah? I’ll wake yah fo’ we leave in the mornin’, Boots will be happy tah see yah awake.”

Racetrack nodded, closing his eyes and easily slipping back to sleep.

*****

He woke the second time to someone gently poking his cheeks and calling his name. “Racetrack, get up, Spot said I could wake yah.”

He blinked slowly to look at Boots, who was sitting next to him and looking at him with a worried expression. When he saw Race open his eyes, his face broke into a grin and he hugged Race tightly, blubbering into his shoulder.

Race, ignoring the pain all over his body, sat up and cradled Boots close, rubbing his back gently. “I’m proud of you, kid, I’m real proud of yah, yah did good, yah hear? You’se did exca’ly wha’ I told yah to, and I’m so glad you’se okay.”

Boots nodded, burying his face in Race’s shoulder. Race noticed Spot and two others giving them the illusion of privacy by talking quietly by the door, ignoring the two of them. “I’m sorry, Race, I’m real sorry,” he whispered, sniffling slightly. 

He quickly shushed the boy, shaking his head. “Nuh-uh, none o’ that, yah hear? I’d do that fo’ yah in a ‘eartbeat. The only ting I regret is lettin’ you’se get in that situ-ation in the firs’ place.”

Boots nodded again and rubbed his eyes, turning away so the Brooklyn boys couldn’t see him. “Thank you’se, Race,” he mumbled, giving him a weak smile.

Race smiled and ruffled his hair. “Pay me back by bringin’ me cigars and makin’ sure Albert di’n’ steal none, yeah? I’ll soak that punk one day, jist’ yah wait.”

Boots giggled. “Ain’t he yah best friend?”

“Nuh-uh, I demoted ‘im last week, afta he stole one o’ me Coronas. Ain’t nobody takin’ my Coronas, Boots, yah hear? Romeo, Blink an’ Mush is me new favori’es, an’ you o’ course.”

The younger boy laughed harder, gently pressing against him. Race smiled fondly and poked his sides. “You’se gotta get goin’, Boots. Tell the fellas to come visit me, an’ make someone bring me damn cards. If I’s gotta be here, I’s gonna play some goddamn poker.”

Boots nodded, hugging him tightly before carefully getting to his feet. Race continued to smile. “An’ Boots?” He waited until the boy looked at him. “Make sure Specs, an’ Romeo, an’ Kid Blink, an’ Snipeshooter, an’ y’know, all them colored boys, make sure they’s ain’t sellin’ alone, got it? Tell Jack not tah let any of y’all go out alone without someone white no more, ‘kay? It ain’t safe an’ I don’ know what we’s do without you.”

Something flickered across Spot’s face when he heard that, turning towards Race with a thoughtful expression. Race ignored him in favor of looking Boots in the eyes to make sure he understood how serious it was.

Finally, a small, “Yessir,” left Boots’ lips, and he and the taller boy, who Race assumed was Bee, left.

That left Race with Spot and the other boy in the room alone. Spot was still studying him, like he expected Race to get up and start tap dancing or something. His companion grabbed a bucket and a cloth bag from the shelf next to the door and headed to Race’s side, gently pushing him to lay flat. From there, he took a rag from the bag and dipped it into the water from the bucket and slowly started to clean around Race’s wounds.

“What’s it wit’ you’se an’ starin’? Yah got sometin’ tah say tah me?” Race finally said after a few minutes of Spot staring. He scowled, crossing his arms. 

“I jist’ di’n’ expectcha tah keer beans about colored folk, that all.” Spot muttered. “Why’s wouldja? You’se ain’t colored none.”

Race’s jaw tightened. “Them boys is family, Conlon. Them’s the only family I got. None of thems is any differen’ ‘cause they got differen’ skin. We’s all livin’ an’ doin’ the bes’ we can tah survive. I don’ see the point of makin’ it harda fo’ them. It jist’ ain’t right.” Race took a deep breath, scowling. His voice got more and more defensive as he went on. “I’s was a guttersnipe, ‘bout tah hang the fiddle, ‘fo’ they’s found me, an’ they’s gave me a new life, a new name, a new chance.”

Spot held up his hands in mock surrender. “No need to get yah self into a pucker, Racetrack, I’s was jist’ askin’ a question. I did’n ask fo’ no sob story.”

Racetrack’s cheeks flushed and his scowl deepened. He glared up at the ceiling, jerking with a hiss when the boy started peeling off the bandages on his hip. He ground his teeth together and tried to keep his breathing steady, eyes shut tightly and body as taunt as a bow.

“That’s Stitches, by the way,” Spot said, his voice a lot closer, and a bit quieter too. “He’s our go-to when tings get bad and messy, he’s real good at fixin’ us up. He ain’t gonna hurt you’se none.”

“I knows that!” Race snapped, squirming and grunting as the wound was cleaned and prodded. Stitches squeezed his wrist gently and tried to be as gentle as possible as he cleaned up the stitches in Race’s hip.

Race heard Spot pause for a moment before he felt the bedding shift slightly as someone sat next to him. He opened his eyes a crack just in time to see Spot gently take his hand. “Squeeze when it ‘urts,” he said gruffly, refusing to look at him. “’Supposed tah help the pain.”

Race swallowed hard and swore when Stitches accidentally pressed a little too hard, gripping Spot’s hand until Spot was certain his fingers were going to break, but he said nothing. He knew something Race didn’t.

Race twisted weakly, lifting his free arm to press against his face, trying to breathe steadily. Stiches chewed on his lip as he studied the wound, nodding after a minute. “No mo’ bleedin’,” he reported, voice faint and raspy. “Leave it uncova-ed. We can’t afford no ex’ra ban’ages.”

Spot nodded and squeezed Race’s hand again. “Stitches cleans ‘em up tah be able tah see how bad it is, y’know, an’ I think that helps a lot, mos’ of my boys get better afta seein’ Stitches. Don’ usually get infected, so you’se gonna be fine.”

Stitches bobbed his head and grinned proudly. “You’se gotta sees what yah treatin’,” he agreed. He fixed the band of Race’s pants so they wouldn’t rub against the wound and nodded, standing up.

Race smiled gratefully. “Thanks, Stitches,” he said softly, already exhausted. “Means a lot tah me.”

Stitches patted his shoulder gently and stood up, stretching carefully. “Res’,” he murmured. “You’se gonna need it.”

Race curled toward Spot, eyes closed. He winced as some straw jabbed at the lump on the back of his head, whimpering softly. He didn’t even realize he was still holding Spot’s hand until Spot was gently pulling his hand away. Strangely enough, Race felt disappointed at the lack of contact, since he really didn’t know Spot, but he figured it was due to the fact that he tended to crave contact, and that he was in a lot of pain and wanted comfort. He ignored the feeling though, figuring that Spot had better things to do than babysit a Manhattan Newsie. He was the King of Brooklyn after all. Racetrack heard fabric rustle, and felt Spot shift, probably standing up.

Then, there was a warm hand gently cradling his head and raising it just enough to slip a soft fabric underneath it, cushioning his throbbing head. Race opened his eyes in surprise, blinking blearily up at Spot who….

Didn’t have a shirt on.

Race’s throat went dry and he couldn’t help but stare. Then, once he realized what he was doing, his stomach rolled, and he jerked away, closing his eyes tightly. He felt the blood drain from his face as he repressed his panic. He was such a disgusting piece of garbage, he should’ve died when he was first left on the streets, he was unnatural, he was perverted, he was-

He was cut off from continuing his inner monologue when Spot touched his shoulder. “Racetrack? You okay?” He asked, sounding confused. “Why’dja get all skeery on me like that, eh?”

Racetrack stiffened and tried to curl up as much as he could, his breaths coming out in short puffs. He was terrified. He didn’t want anyone to ever know he was a sodomite, a Mary. He didn’t want to be hunted down and killed like a beast. He had to pretend until it became real, he could pretend to like girls, he already did. If he could just pretend longer, just a few years more, he was sure that he’d be able to do it, be able to love girls like a normal person. He had to repent of his sins or whatever.

Spot’s grip tightened and he used both hands to maneuver Racetrack so he was sitting up and facing him. He gently tapped Race’s cheek, scowling with worry in his eyes. “Oi, what’s a matta wit’chu? Breathe, yah coot. Jist’ breathe.”

Racetrack jerked away from his touch, his chest feeling tight and constricting. He could barely hear Spot over all of the noise in his head, and his whole body was trembling. He felt floaty, like he was being released from his own body, and he still couldn’t breathe.

Then, there was a stinging on his cheek, and he sucked in a sharp breath with a wail, and he heard a swear and scrambling. There was a high pitch noise and he was scared, he was so scared, he didn’t know why, but he couldn’t focus, there was so much going on. 

Something warm was cradling his face and it helped ground him. The high pitch noise slowly died down, and he realized belatedly, that it had been him making the noise. There was a soft murmur coming from in front of him, and it sounded nice and safe so he tried to focus on that. 

He felt dizzy and light headed, but it wasn’t until someone said, “Stop holdin’ your breath, damn it,” that he realized that he hadn’t been breathing. He sucked in deeply and choked, coughing and trembling. He was enveloped in warmth and he shivered, going limp against whatever was holding him up. He was so tired and weak, and as his panic faded, the pain in his body intensified. 

Finally, Racetrack felt like himself again and slowly became aware of his surroundings again. There was a soft humming of the city from outside the closed windows, he could smell smoke and sweat and the odor of boys who didn’t get showers often. Closer, stronger, there was a smell of sea salt, and fresh newspapers, and something that almost smelled like hay or oats. 

Then, he realized, he was practically curled up in Spot Conlon’s lap, his face pressed into his neck while strong arms surrounded him.

He tensed and tried to pull back, opening his eyes only to freeze when he saw something on Spot’s neck.

It was small dots littering his shoulders and upper back, and Race easily recognized them as cigarette burns. That alone wasn’t what made him freeze.

What made him freeze was that he knew he had the same exact pattern of scars littering his own body.

He swallowed hard and pulled back, looking at Spot carefully. Now that he knew what he was looking for, he saw it. A tiny scar under his ear that had shown up on Race a few years before, a dark bruise on his back where Race guessed he had hit the wall the day before, a quick glance down showed him that Spot had a red and irritated hip as well, and he’d bet that under the waistband of his pants, there was the beginning of a scar there too.

“Spot,” he whispered, eyes wide. 

Spot glanced at him, chewing his lip. “Lay down before you hurt yourself even more. What the hell jist’ happened there?”

Racetrack blinked and did as Spot told him, mostly because his body was killing him, but also because he was too much in shock to disobey.

His soulmate wasn’t a girl. His soulmate was a boy. There really wasn’t a way to change himself. As much as it scared him, a part of him was relieved because at least he wouldn’t have to pretend to love a girl. The rest of him was terrified though, because he was sure Spot didn’t want a boy as a soulmate. Spot wasn’t a sodomite. He wasn’t queer. So what did it mean?

Spot snapped his fingers in front of Racetrack’s face, looking worried for a second before quickly covering it. “Oi, look at me. What the fuck is with yah, huh?”

“I-I…” His voice was rough and raspy and he winced, shrinking back a little. He couldn’t let Spot now he knew. Ignorance was bliss. “I… You’re my soulmate.”

Shit.

Spot stiffened and pressed his lips together. “And?” He snapped.

Racetrack flinched back at the sharp tone, throat going dry. His nerves were still shot from his fit, and he couldn’t handle someone’s anger at the moment. 

Before he could stutter out a reply, Spot winced and softened, reaching out to touch Race’s shoulder. “Hey, hey, I’s sorry, Racetrack, I jist’… I’s ain’t used tah nothin’ like this, see? Its… Well, I thoughts I was broken. Messed up in the head. Crazy as a loon, yah see?” Spot’s thumb rubbed against Race’s skin idly, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. “I don’t…. I… Fuck, listen, don’ tell no one, but I’m scared, ‘kay? This… This woul’ get me- us killed. It will, if we’s not careful.”

Racetrack almost started crying. “You… You’re one of thems too? A...” He leaned closer, afraid to speak the word out loud in case anyone was to hear them. “Queer?”

Spot scowled at the term, hunching his shoulders and glaring to the side. It took him a minute to respond. “Yeah,” he said gruffly, avoiding eye contact. “Guess I’se is.” He glanced at Race. “You is too.” He paused. “Ain’t you’se?”

Race cringed, shifting awkwardly. “Guess I’se is,” he echoed.

Spot stared at him for a moment, something flickering across his face that Race couldn’t place. 

“Fuck it,” Spot murmured after a moment, and Race furrowed his eyebrows, opening his mouth to question what he meant when he was cute off with rough, chapped lips covering his own. A calloused hand oh-so-carefully cradled his bandaged head, holding him close.

Butterflies erupted in his stomach, and Race felt like his head was going to float away, but whether that was due to his head injury or the kiss was anyone’s guess. 

When they broke apart, Race gaped like a fish while Spot pulled back slowly, blinking slowly.

“I- Wha- but-! What was that?” Race sputtered, looking slightly panicked. “Why’d’ja do that?”

“Figured I might as well go all in if we’s could be killed for it.” Spot murmured with a shrug. “’sides, I’se been wantin’ tah do that since I saw yah. You’se unfortunately pretty.”

Race blinked and swallowed hard. “I… Do I’se not get in a say in this?”

Spot frowned and then looked a bit surprised and worried. “Did… Did you not wants that? Shit, I shoulda asked, I’se sorry, I didn’t think none-”

Race shook his head, and quickly pressed a kiss to his lips to shut him up. “No, no, that’s not what I’se mean, I jist’ wasn’ getting’ no say, y’know?”

Spot nodded, chewing his lip. “Yeah. Yeah, I gets it. I don’ want yah tah feel like yah gotta listen tah everythin’ I say. You’se get say.”

He nodded, still staring at Spot. “This is definitely not hows I expected this tah go,” he mumbled and Spot couldn’t help the weak chuckle that left his throat. Race wanted to hear that noise again. It was possibly the most beautiful sound he had ever heard. Yeah, it was rough and low, but it came from his soulmate.

His soulmate.

It hadn’t really sunk in until just then that Spot Conlon, King of Brooklyn, was his soulmate. Spot Conlon was the one who had to see his skin painted with bruises from an unknown source. He had to see burns pop up on his shoulders every few days, had to see hand prints around his arms, his throat. 

It seemed like Spot seemed to realize the same thing, his eyes drifting to the scars on Race’s shoulders and neck. Fingers gently brushed over the tiny circles, but fire burned in his eyes.

“Who did this.” It was a statement, not a question, spoken in a tone so cold and hard that would’ve left Race cowering in any other situation. But here, in this context, Race understood it wasn’t directed at him. He understood that Spot was angry because an injustice had been done against him. Spot was angry because someone had hurt Race, and usually it would’ve pissed him off, but now? Now, Race was tired and in pain, and still reeling from everything that had happened. He didn’t have the energy to be angry.

“Do it matta?” He mumbled, shoulders slumping. “They’s ain’t doin’ it no more.”

Spot scowled, gripping Race’s chin, making him look him in the eyes. “It matta tah me. You was no older than four when they’se started appearin’. My ma tolds me that, ‘afore she passed. She saids my “girl” had been hurt real bad by someone and that you’se must’ve been real little when it started ‘cause I was too. She tolds me nary tah let’chu get hurts again, and I ain’t, not eva, but I can’t do that if they’s still out there.”

Race’s lip trembled. “You’se had a good mum?” He murmured. “That’s good, that’s real nice. I’m real glad you had a real good mum.”

Spot pursed his lips and loosened his grip on Race’s face. “Hey now, Racetrack, don’ get all mopey on me now, I’se no good at emotions, don’tcha knows that?”

A weak, watery laugh bubbled out of Race’s throat, and tears spilled over and down his cheeks. He pressed into Spot’s touch, trying to hold back the tears that were already falling. He wiped them away with the back of his hands. “I-I’se sorry, Sp-Spot, I’se jist’ can’t help in none sometimes, y’know?”

A sigh fell from Spot’s lips as he shuffled close to Race, pulling him against his chest. “Yeah, yeah, jist’… Jist’ let it out then, won’tcha?”

Race lost all composure at that, sobbing into Spot’s shoulder. He was a fifteen-year-old who couldn’t remember the last time he had let himself cry like this. It had always been him, being strong for the younger kids, always cracking jokes and making an ass of himself to keep the younger kids happy and make them think it was all okay but he had been falling apart for years, trying to use paste and string to keep himself together, but it was no good.

It was no good to keep it all to himself and as he let out years of misery and fear and anxiety, it felt good. Exhausting, but freeing. He felt lighter than he had felt in what seemed like his entire life. 

He didn’t know how long he stayed there, crying into Spot’s shoulder, but eventually, he ran out of tears. He sniffled, trembling slightly as he lifted his head to look at Spot.

“Hey,” Spot whispered, tucking a curl behind Race’s ear. “Feelin’ any betta?”

Race couldn’t talk. He nodded, hoping that would be enough, and pressed closer to Spot, seeking the warmth and comfort.

Race had always been a people person, and awfully affectionate as well. He almost always was touching someone, whether it was a hand on a younger newsie’s head or an arm slung around someone’s shoulder. And now that he had someone he could be affectionate without worrying about his secret being found out? He was going to take full advantage of that. 

Spot seemed to understand, which Race was unbelievably grateful for. “Yah need tah sleep, yeah?” He slowly shifted until he was laying on the makeshift bed with Race laying on top of him. “Jist’ rest. I’se gotcha.”

Race closed his eyes and drifted off easily, feeling safe and secure with Spot’s heart beating underneath his ear and his arms surrounding him.

*****

That was the beginning of something neither of them had words for. It was new and scary at times, but they found home in each other, learning something new every time they met. Spot learned Race’s anxious tick of twirling his cigar around in his hands, and Race found out that Spot’s left eye twitched when he was trying to repress a smile or chuckle. 

They found out that their hands fit together like puzzle pieces, and how to read each other with a single look. And when they were together, no matter what they were doing, it never felt like a minute wasted. 

They found the perfect hiding places of both Brooklyn and Manhattan, alleyways that were never explored, buildings never used, rooftops never stepped upon, docks never looked under. 

Of course, their bubble had to be burst at some point.

It was Blink and Mush who found them, six months later, tucked away in a dark doorway of an alleyway blocked by a bunch of crates. Racetrack had Spot pinned to the wall, pressing kisses on any bit of his skin he could find. It was Spot’s sixteenth birthday (Race had turned sixteen a month and a half prior) and Race was giving him his present: kisses and maybe a little something else if they could find somewhere safe (they were teenage boys after all, hormones were a thing, and definitely affected them).

“Race,” Spot rasped, voice high and breathless. “F-fuck, Race.” 

Race chuckled lowly against Spot’s throat, pressing their bodies together and slipping a knee between Spot’s thighs. “Lovey, yah so goddamn pretty, fuck-”

Spot huffed and jabbed his ribs, face flushed. “Shuddup, you goddamn prick, I swan-”

“You swan, eh? Ooh-hoo, getting’ all polite an’ propa on me, now, is yah?” Racetrack teased, a soft smile on his kiss swollen lips. “Per’aps I oughta let’cha stay pure til marriage, mm? Would hate tah ‘ave yah Pops chasin’ me down the street fo’ havin’ my ‘ands up yah skirt, hm?”

Spot opened his mouth to snap something at Race when there was a soft clatter from behind them. They both froze, the blood draining from their faces.

Race did his best to shield Spot’s body with his own as he turned around, silently praying that Spot would have enough common sense to stay hidden, for both of their sakes.

He looked to the source of the noise and swallowed hard at what he saw, reaching behind him to touch Spot’s hip, nudging him gently to go further into the shadows. 

He couldn’t decide if it would’ve been better or worse if a stranger had found him versus the two newsies who actually stood there in the alleyway.

“Sorry, Race, we didn’t know you’se gotta girl wit’chu,” Blink said, stepping towards him. “But Cowboy’s been lookin’ fo’ you, even crossed over on Brooklyn turf tah see if you was still at Sheepshead. He was real lucky, ‘pparently, Spot ain’t there.” 

Race nodded. “Right. I uh. I’ll be there in a bit, yeah?”

Mush frowned, trying to look behind Race. “Who yah ‘idin’, ‘ace?” He asked, voice loud and strange accent thick. “Dat ain’t like you’se, ‘ace, you’se ain’t nary ‘ides yah girls.”

Race panicked a little, backing up slightly. “It ain’t no one, Mush, keep yah blame nose outta it!” he snapped, a bit too harshly. 

Mush looked hurt, shrinking a bit a little. Blink’s smile was quickly replaced with a scowl. “The fuck is wit’chu, Higgins? Why you’se bein’ mean to Mush?” He demanded protectively. “He may not hear, but he ain’t stupid an’ he got feelin’s too! Yah don’t gotta be a cussed out scalawag!” 

Racetrack’s hand pressed against Spot’s hip anxiously, tapping his finger insistently. Spot covered his hand with his own. “I’se sorry, okay? I’se don’ means it none, you knows that, Mush, I don’ means it.” 

Mush looked at Blink with a frown, moving his hands around too fast for Race to catch. Blink seemed to understand it just fine though, looking at Race with a frown. “We ain’t happy wit’chus. C’mon already, we don’ care who yah lady friend are, Racer, Jack jist needs yah, an’ we was sent tah getcha.”

Racetrack hesitated. “You two goes ahead, I’ll meetcha there, yeah?”

Blink scoffed and rushed forward with a frustrated noise, grabbing Race’s shirt before he could react and yanked him away, only to reveal Spot. Race stumbled off the stoop, looking pale and fearful. 

Blink’s eye widened and he let go of Racetrack quickly, stepping back. “You…”

Spot was the first one to move, rushing forwards and shoving Racetrack. “Go! Run!” He said.

It was all Race needed, apparently, because he was off in a flash, Spot on his heels. Within a few seconds, they could hear Blink and Mush following close behind.

Race and Spot ran as fast as they could, whipping around corners and through alleys, always a few steps ahead of Blink and Mush. Soon enough, they skidded to a stop behind a wagon a few blocks away from the Brooklyn Bridge, panting hard and leaning against each other. The last dregs of sunlight were slowly slipping away as Race watched, body trembling and mind racing. 

A weak, hysterical laugh left his mouth as he looked up at Spot, terrified. “What do we do, Spot?” He whispered, afraid. “What is I’se supposed tah do? I can’t go back there, not if Blink an’ Mush knows…”

Spot gently gripped Race’s bicep. “I ain’t gonna let nothin’ hurt yah, nary eva, you hears? You’se can stay in Brooklyn ‘til we find somethin’ out. Or permanently, I won’ complain none if you’se wanna stay but… I knows Manhattan’s yah home.”

Race nodded slowly, face still pale. He opened his mouth to say something when he saw someone move behind Spot. 

It was Snyder.

Race shoved Spot. “Run!” He yelled. “Cheese it, it’s the bulls! We gotta cross the bridge!”

Spot didn’t hesitate before he ran, Race close behind. They leaped off the curb, and Race swore as he felt something in his ankle snap when he landed, his foot at an awkward angle, and sharp pain shot up his leg. Spot didn’t seem to notice, still running for the bridge. Race tried to follow, but he was too slow, the pain in his ankle getting worse with every step he took. 

Then, a cop stepped out from next to a produce stand that Spot had just passed, and Race knew it was over. Snyder was right behind him, a cop in front of him and trying to run on a broken ankle-

He just wouldn’t make it much further. 

He just hoped Spot wouldn’t get caught too.

He did his best to try to stop before he hit the officer, but he was going too fast for a distance too short. There was a club raised, a hit to his head, and he was out like a light.

As the world blinked out, Race saw Spot’s retreating figure look back just as he reached the edge of the bridge. He saw the shock and fear and anger pass over the other boy’s face as he crumpled to the ground.

*****

Spot Conlon had been hurt before. He had been beaten, he had been ridiculed, he had been forced to obey.

But he had never known the pain and guilt that gripped his heart, and squeezed his lungs, and pooled in his stomach that occurred when he saw Racetrack, his soulmate and lover fall to the ground like a rag-doll.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry, he wanted to puke, he wanted to rage.

He wanted to wake up and have it all be an awful dream.

But as he watched, two more cops came out of the shadows and kicked Race’s limp form, grabbing his wrists and handcuffing him before the biggest of the four picked him up and threw him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. 

He was about to run after them when a thin hand encircled his wrist. He drew his hand back quickly, bout to punch whoever touched him, but quickly dropped his hand when he saw Crunch looking at him sympathetically. 

“What’chu want, Crunch?” He snapped, gritting his teeth and digging his nails into his palms to keep himself from crying. He was Spot Conlon, King of Brooklyn. He didn’t cry.

She pursed her lips. “We was lookin’ for you’se. Da mayor hired mo’ bulls an’ they’s crackin’ down on street rats fo' vagrancy. I cames tah warn yah, but methinks you’se got the memo.”

Spot swallowed hard. “Where’s they takin’ Racetrack?”

Crunch’s expression was the only answer he needed.

*****

“What’dya mean, you don’ knows where he went?” Jack asked slowly, trying to stay calm. Crutchie sat next to him, leaning forward towards Mush and Blink, the former looking upset and guilty while the latter tried his hardest to keep a neutral expression. “Di’n’tcha follow ‘im?”

“Yeha, we’s tried, Jack, ‘course we did, but they’s was fasta. Racer could outrun anyone, you knows that, an’-”

“’They’s’? Who’s ‘they’s’, Blink? An’ why were they’s runnin’ anyhow?” Crutchie asked, voice tight.

“I… Racer and uh. Spot. Spot Conlon. He was on our turf, an’ he was with Race an’ they was…” Mush elbowed him sharply and Blink grimaced, looking uncomfortable. “Do it matta why’s they was runnin’? Fact is, we’s can’t find Race nowhere.”

Crutchie scowled, hitting his crutch on the floor. “Yeah, it matta! ‘Course it matta! You’se obviously did somethin’ tah upset Race, and apparently also Spot fucking Conlon-” Crutchie ignored the surprised looks at his use of the swear, since it was rare that Crutchie got that upset, “an’ they’s could be in the Refuge nows fo’ all we knows!”

“Actually, we do knows,” a voice said from the doorway. 

Four heads whipped around to see Spot Conlon standing in the doorway with three of his newsies. Tightly gripped in his hands was a wooden cane with a silver hand piece. 

“I knows damn well that the bulls got Race, ‘cause I watched it happen. An’ I’m here tah break ‘im out. Don’t keer what it takes. An’ you’se-” he pointed his cane at Jack with a glare. “You’se is gonna help me.”

The silence that followed was deafening, and Spot slowly lowered his cane, tapping it on the ground. His newsies fanned out on either side of him, cracking knuckles and necks as they glared at the Manhattan newsies.

“This is Crunch, my first lieutenant,” Sot said, gesturing to the girl next to him. Her dreadlocks were held back with a red bandana and fell down to her waist, and she had a long scar that slashed across her mouth. Her scowl made it pop out even more. “She’s a good fighta. She also don’ talk much.” She nodded and leaned against the doorframe.

“An’ these boys is Poppy and Sunshine.” He pointed to the tall, thin dark haired boy, and then to the redhead who was only a few inches taller than Spot. “Poppy’s real good at sneakin’ and pickin’ locks, an’ Sunshine is a downright nuisance when he wants to be, can make people real streaked, if we needs a distraction.”

Jack nodded slowly, looking pale and shaky. Crutchie’s jaw clenched. “I’se Crutchie. This is Jack Kelly, an’ those two is Mush and Kid Blink.” 

Spot glared at Mush and Blink, and Crutchie raised an eyebrow. “Somethin’ you’se gotta say, Conlon? They ain’t tol’ us what made you’se an’ Race run off, an’ I’m getting’ sick of it.”

Spot looked at Crutchie in surprise, which only made him frown more.

“I ain’t nothin’ tah say. It don’ matta right now anyway, we ‘ave mo’ pressin’ mattas.” Spot muttered, shooting one last glare at the two. “Is there any otha newsies we should bring in?”

Crutchie sighed and dropped the subject, but not before shooting Mush and Blink one last look to say ‘this isn’t over’. Looked like he’d have to step in as a temporary first lieutenant since Race obviously wasn’t there, and Jack would need all the support he could get. 

“First thing’s first,” he said, nudging Jack. “We’s gotta make contact wit’ Race tah see what kinda shape he’s in, and what he needs.”

*****

Racetrack woke slowly to quiet sobbing and muffled whimpers. He groaned a little in pain as he sat up oh-so-slowly. He touched his head and grimaced at the feeling of crunchy, dried blood. He looked around slowly, and felt sick at what he saw.

He knew where he was. How could he not? This was the place of his nightmares. He had spent a week in this hellhole at one point, right after his father had finally kicked him out and Race didn’t know what to do. All he did was steal a chunk of bread, but it got him locked up for an entire week. A week spent sure he was waiting for his death.

He swallowed, wincing at the dryness of his throat, and looked to the source of crying. A tiny boy, barely more than a skeleton, clutching a girl in his arms. Judging by how similar they looked, Race assumed they were siblings. Maybe even twins. 

Race frowned, feeling the throbbing pain of his ankle, knowing there was no way he would be able to walk on it. He slowly dragged himself across the floor to the beds. It was dark outside, but other than that, Race had no idea what time it was. It was probably after curfew though, and so he couldn’t risk making too much noise.

He carefully made his way up onto the bed, and touched the boy’s shoulder. When he looked up, Race realized with a start that the kid was older than his tiny, frail body implied. He had to be around nine or ten, and the girl he was holding looked to be around six or seven and running a fever.

“Hey,” he whispered. “Hey, it’s gonna be okay, yah hear? You’se gonna be okay.” He looked at the girl and gently pushed her hair off her forehead. “We’s gonna keep her warm, okay?”

The boy trembled and nodded hesitantly. Race gave him a weak smile. “I’m Racetrack. What’s your name, kid?”

“Georgie,” he whispered, voice raspy and thin. “Dis is Soda. I calls her dat.”

Race nodded, picking up Soda to put her under the ratty old blanket on the bed. “A’ight, Georgie. Gets under the covers, let’s keep Soda nice an’ warm.”

Georgie nodded, pressing against the girl’s side underneath the blanket, and Race slid in on the other side, sufficiently sandwiching her between them. “She’ll be okay, Georgie, jist’ you see,” Race mumbled, his eyes slipping closed.

Race didn’t let himself sleep until he heard Georgie’s breaths even out.

*****

Spot didn’t like the plan. He mostly didn’t like it because they had to wait an entire day before they could try to make contact, and that meant that was an entire day that he didn’t know if Race was okay. It scared him to think about the possibility that Race could be being beat that moment and he wouldn’t know it.

(Except he would because the bruises would show up, but so far, nothing more than a handful of minor bruises that were most likely his own, and a rather nasty bruise around his ankle had shown up. Still, he was worried.)

Crunch and Poppy had spent the night at the lodging house in case something happened, while Spot and Sunshine headed back to Brooklyn to make sure everything would be fine by itself for the next few days. 

And when he got back to Manhattan, they were going to sneak over to the Refuge once it got dark, and try to talk to Race through the window. 

Spot had never wanted sunset so much yet still dreaded it more in his life.

*****

Race spent most of the next day tending to Soda and keeping Georgie as calm as he could. The two of them stirred something fiercely protective inside of him, and he decided that he wasn’t going to leave without them, he couldn’t. He would never forgive himself if he did. 

He had a feeling, however, that’d he’d be getting a visitor that night. As soon as Georgie and Soda were asleep, he carefully slipped out from under the blanket and tucked it around Soda gently. He then limped over to the window, using the bunks and wall to keep pressure off his ankle. He sat down heavily on the ground under the window, leaning against the wall and closing his eyes, ignoring the throbbing pain of his ankle and head. 

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed until he heard a light tapping on the window. His eyes shot open, and he struggled to his feet, opening the window as much as he could. He almost cried in relief when he saw Jack and Spot staring at him. 

“Man alive, am I glad tah see your ugly mugs,” Race whispered. His words were teasing, but his voice was rough and shaky, showing how relieved he really was. “Please tells me you’se got some damn water.”

Spot swallowed hard and nodded. “Yeah. We’s gots some water for you. Is you’se okay?”

Race shrugged. “Water’s not for me. There’s a kid in here, her name’s Soda, she’s got a real bad fevah. She needs some water an’ soon.” 

Jack swallowed hard. “How bad is yah hurt?”

Race winced. “I uh. Well, methinks me ankle’s broken, and my head was hit again real bad. It’s no biggie, though, I’se is fine.” He set his jaw. “I ain’tt leavin’ without Georgie an’ Soda though. Whatever the plan is, they’se comin’ wit’ us.”

Jack nodded immediately. “’course. I wish we’s could do a big jailbreak, but we ain’t got no resources fo’ that.” He looked into the room with a far off look on his face. “We’s got lotsa water, but that was all we’s could gatha on short notice.”

Race smiled faintly. “Tha’s okay, Jack. These kids is grateful fo’ anythin’ they’s can get.”

Spot pressed his lips together firmly and glanced at Jack. “You’se and Poppy wanna form a chain tah get the water up here?” 

Jack nodded and climbed down the side of the building to where people were waiting below. As soon as Jack was out of sight, Race grabbed Spot’s hand, squeezing it tight. “I hate it in here, Spot,” he whispered, his false bravado gone. “I jist’ wanna go home, I’m real scared. Ii_’se real scared Soda ain’t gonna make it outta here, and I can’t- I promised Georgiie- I…” He choked, tears welling in his eyes. “I’se sorry, Spot, I’se real sorry.”

Spot shushed him quietly, using his hand to wipe away Race’s tears as he clung to him desperately. “I knows, I knows, I gotchu, I swan, lovey, I gots yah.” 

“I’m assumin’ they don’ know? Mush an’ Blink didn’ spill?” Racetrack asked quietly, looking worried. 

Spot shook his head, looking mystified. “No, they’s di’n’.”

Race nodded, leaning into Spot’s hand. “I didn’ think they’s would, afta I thought ‘bout it. They’s ain’t snitches, an’ they ain’t like that neither. They’s loyal, and they’s my brothas.”

Spot blinked and bit his lip. “So…. We’s ran fo’ no call? An’… An’ you’se got caught fo’ no good call?”

Race winced, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh…. Yeah? Sorry.”

Spot glanced around quickly, looking for anyone paying attention to them. No one was. He gently pulled Race closer and kissed him quickly, pulling back almost immediately. “Sorry,” he murmured. “I jist’…. Had tah do it.”

He giggled weakly, tears stinging his eyes. “I’se glad you’se did.”

“Oi, Spot!” Jack called from below, holding a rope in his hand. “Loop this ‘round them winda bars! It’ll make it easier tah tote up!”

Spot nodded, and caught the rope easily, doing as Jack requested. Within twenty minutes, Race had plenty of water for all of the kids in the Refuge, and was almost crying in joy. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you so much. I-”

There were footsteps in the hallway, and Racetrack paled. “Cheese it!” He hissed. “Go, now!” 

Not a moment too soon, Spot climbed down the wall, and Race shut the window, quickly hiding the water under the bed.

Unfortunately, that meant he was awkwardly standing in the middle of the room when the door was opened.

*****

(When Spot found bruises blooming all over his ribs, and what looked like lashes from a whip on his back, he had to leave the lodging house. He found an abandoned building and climbed to the very top where he broke down, screaming and crying because his lovely, brilliant Racetrack had to be hurting so bad.)

*****

Racetrack almost started crying when he woke up. He was face down on the bed, his back bare to this cold, dusty air. It burned and stung, and he wanted in to stop, every movement felt like he was ripping his back apart. He could feel the ghost of the switch coming down on his back, wishing he could go back and kept his damn mouth shut.

“What are you doing out of bed after curfew?” One of the guards demanded, scanning his eyes around the room. Race could tell the man was itching for a fight, and he delivered.

“Why, I was lookin’ fo’ somethin’ fo’ you’se! There’s gots tah be a papa bag or somethin’ tah cover yah ugly mug somewhere, ain’t there?”

He hadn’t stopped at there, though, of course he didn’t. He was Racetrack Higgins, he never stepped down from a fight.

He so wished he had, for once in his life.

By noon, he had managed to just barely sit up, gasping in pain as tears streamed down his cheeks. It was then that he had Georgie pull the water out and gave each of the kids a bottle, telling them to drink it sparingly but to drink it if they needed it. He then, with the help of a girl named Mathilda, had Soda sit up and very carefully poured water into her mouth, trying to get her to swallow. 

“C’mon, chick, jist’ a bit of water,” Race whispered, face ashen from the pain in his body. He determinedly ignored it, focusing on Soda, who needed his help. 

It took her a few minutes, but she eventually swallowed with a soft whimper, and Race cheered quietly. “Attagirl, look at that,” he said proudly, running his fingers through her filthy hair. “You’se gots this, Soda, drank some more.” 

After the first swallow, it was remarkably easier to get a full bottle down and with every little she drank, Race’s smile grew. He held her close once she was done, ignoring the flare of pain from his ribs as she leaned against them. She coughed, but her eyes were open and she seemed at least half aware of what was going on around her, which Race counted as a success. 

Race catnapped most of the afternoon, Soda curled up against him under the ratty blanket. He was awakened after dark by Georgie, the boy’s dark eyes flashing like a frightened rabbit’s. “Window,” he mumbled and Race nodded, reaching out and gently squeezing his shoulder. “Keep Soda warm while I talks, will yah?” 

Georgie nodded and took Race’s spot as soon as he vacated it. He smiled fondly at the boy and grimaced as he realized he’d have to stand to make it to the window. He couldn’t feel his foot or ankle anymore, and it was big, swollen and a dark purple color. Not in good shape, especially if he didn’t get it tended to soon.

He chewed his lip, looking for something to use as a crutch when Mathilda appeared at his side from one of the other bunks. “C’mon,” she whispered. “I’ll help you over.”

She spoke well for a girl in the Refuge, but Race didn’t ask, and Mathilda didn’t tell. Instead, she helped him to the window, and dragged a table over for Race to sit on to try to give him some relief. 

He thanked her quietly before looking out the window eagerly. Outside was Finch and Spot, both looking around nervously. Spot noticed him first. 

“You’se look like shit, Higgins,” he said lowly. To most, Spot would look bored an unimpressed, but Race could see the way Spot was gnawing on his cheek discreetly, and how his eyes flickered over him too many times to be uninterested.

“Ooh, what a charmer,” Race said sarcastically, his voice getting tight at the end. He coughed into his elbow and swore quietly. “Fuck this place. Wha’s the update, eh?”

Spot pursed his lips. “I don’ like it much, but we’s was thinkin’ if we’s can get Sunshine and Crunch tah distract the guards, we can gets Poppy an’ Specs tah pick the locks on these winda cages an’ get you’se an’ them kids out.” He lowered his voice even more. “Speakin’ of, how’s that girl doin’? The puny feelin’ one, Soda, was it?”

Race grinned brightly. “She kept down an entire bottle o’ water, Spot, it was real great. Methinks she’s gonna be betta in no time, jist you’se wait.” 

Spot got a soft look in his eyes as Race lit up to talk about the little girl getting better. It was amazing to see Race so protective and caring of the two children he had literally met the day before. It was sweet.

Finch smirked a bit. “’Bout that,” he drawled, pulling a mostly empty bottle out of his pocket. “We brung somethin’ fo’ you’se. pickpocketed it meself,” he said proudly, holding it out to Race, who took it like it was gold. “Supposed tah help wit’ coughing an’ sore throat. Pro’ly is gonna help wit’ feva too.”

Race swallowed hard and reached through the bars to squeeze Finch’s wrist. “Thank you, Finch, I’se mean it.”

He nodded, glancing down for a second before back up. “Now, how badly is you’se hurt? We seed that you ain’t walkin’, Racetrack, so don’ you lie tah us.”

Race’s smile faltered, and he looked towards the door anxiously, fiddling with the suspenders hanging off his pants. He scooted forward into the moonlight and Finch sucked in a sharp breath as he took in the mess of colors and bruises painted on Race’s ribs. “That ain’t all,” Race mumbled, eyes shut tightly. Then he turned, and Spot swore while Finch’s stomach dropped out of him.

Race’s back was covered in crisscrossing lashes. The flayed skin was open and still oozing in some places, where scabs formed and broke over and over. There was dried blood crusting all over his back, flaking off slowly. The skin that hadn’t been split was red and irritated. Finch almost cried as his eyes raked over the raised, bloody welts, shuddering in horror. Spot’s jaw and hands were clenched and he practically vibrated in fury at the inhumane way Race and all the other kids were being treated. 

Race turned back around stiffly, grimacing slightly. He avoided looking in their eyes, fidgeting with his suspenders again. “It…. It ain’t as bad as it looks,” he claimed weakly.

“Like hell, it ain’t!” Spot retorted angrily, causing Finch to shoot him a dirty look. He softened his voice a little. “Look, Higgins, you’se don’ gotta lie tah us. We has eyes, we can see that ain’t no good.”

Race ducked his head, swallowing hard. “I knows, I knows, I jist…. I ain’t weak or-or helpless! I… I can handle myself, you’se hear?”

“No one’s doubtin’ that, Race,” Finch said quietly, reaching through the bar to touch his wrist. “Even Brooklyn thinks you is filled tah the top wit’ grit.”

Spot nodded solemnly. “You’se ain’t weak. If you’se was weak, you’se wouldn’ be here no more. We’s know that.”

Race bit his lip, looking at them hesitantly. “A’ight, a’ight….” He mumbled. “I jist…. They’s ain’t nice here.” He shivered a little and grimaced. “Did you’se bring anythin’ fo’ us tonight?”

Spot narrowed his eyes at the shiver. “Where’s yah shirt at?”

He shrugged, looking uncomfortable. “I gave it to Bugsy. His blanket was no good anymo’, an’ he was shiverin’ real bad this mornin’. It was the leas’ I’se could do seence I can’t take ‘im wit’ me.”

“Race, you’se gonna freeze half to the grave,” Finch scolded, looking worried. He pulled off his worn button up, passing it through the bars. “I ain’t takin’ no fo’ an answer. You’se gonna take it, even if you’se jist gonna use it fo’ a blanket. I gots mo’ shirts. You don’ righ’ now.”

Race sighed but took the shirt, shivering a little as he pressed the warm fabric against his chest, soaking in the comfort of familiar scents of cigar smoke, freshly printed papes, and the musty smell of the boarding house. “Steal one o’ my shirts then, or take a few pennies from the library fund tah get yah self a new one. Somethin’. I’se gonna get blood all ova this one, and you’se ain’t gonna want it back.”

Finch scowled. “I ain’t takin’ from the damn library fund, you knows that. An’ it don’ matta none to me, I have mo’ shirts.”

“Library fund?” Spot repeated, eyebrows furrowed. 

“Race has a lil library unda his bed. A couple o’ books tah teach the youngin’s how tah read, and tah teach the olda kids maths an’ such. An’ fo’ entertainmen’ too, but we’s don’ got many of those.” Finch explained quietly. “I’ll show yah lata, but it ain’t the point. Racer, yah got any idea of a good time tah put the plan in motion?”

Race swallowed, pressing his lips together. “I… Well. It’s hard, yah see, tah time thin’s when you’se don’ even know where you is. I don’ know the layout, yah see? They ain’t consistent all that much neither. They don’ take us outta this damn room unless you in trouble or you’se on rotation, and if you’se on rotation, you’se ain’t got no hope a leavin’. Rotation is when you’se too fucked up tah be able to run.” He paused. “It ain’t good. We hasn’t gotten food since I got here. One o’ the olda kids, they say food rotation will be tomorra. They’s been countin. Only thing they keep on a schedule, really.”

Finch looked pale as he reached through the bars to touch Race’s shoulder. “We can’t keep comin’ every night, Race. You knows this. You’se gotta think of somethin’ an’ fast.”

Race’s face paled but he nodded. “Yeah,” he said, voice quiet and shaky. “Yeah, I knows.”

A whisper shout from below, and Finch bit his lip. “We’s gotta go, Race. Think of a plan, an’ think of it real fast. We’s gonna be here tomorra but I’se can’t guarantee nothin’ afta that.”

A nod and Finch was climbing down quickly. Spot reached through the bars to squeeze Race’s wrist gently. “Be careful, you idiot. See yah tomorra.” He kissed his fingers lightning fast, and started climbing down after Finch.

Racetrack watched them go with dread settling heavy in his stomach and panic squeezing his chest.

*****

The next night, as Albert and Spot made it to the window, they were met by a little boy with stringy black hair, tan skin, and teary eyes. 

“R-Racetrack,” the boy hiccupped, his tiny chest moving rapidly with the force of his sobs. “Th-they tooks him, they tooks him away!”

Spot leaned forward, reaching through the bars to gently hold the boy’s shoulder. “Hey, hey, it’s okay, Georgie? Is you’se Georgie?”

The boy- Georgie- nodded, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hands. 

“Georgie, can yah tell me where they’s took Racetrack? Can you’se do that? Do you’se knows?”

Georgie shuddered and started crying harder. “The Room, they’s take ‘im tah the Room.”

Spot exchanged nervous looks with Albert. Whatever this “Room” was, it wasn’t good.

*****

Race didn’t know how long he had been in there. All that he knew was that he wanted out.

It was a tiny room that Race barely could barely lift his head out of a fetal position without hitting it on nails and bits of glass stuck to the walls of the small area. He couldn’t hear anything but his own breaths, and the very occasional muffled footstep somewhere above him. It was then that he screamed, desperate for someone, anyone to hear him.

There were a few air holes, but no light shown through. He was entirely isolated from everything he had everything known. He couldn’t tell if it had been minutes or days since they locked him in there. A sob ripped out of his throat and his arm twitched. What he thought was a piece of glass jabbed his arm. He could feel the sharp pain, and warm blood slowly oozing out of the wound.

(There were matching wounds all over him. Some on accident, but some on purpose, when he got especially desperate for something, anything to tell him that what he was still alive, that he was real.)

Sometimes, Race prayed. He recited every prayer his mama, a devoid Catholic, had ever taught him, and then some he made up on the spot.

Sometimes, Race screamed and yelled every swear and obscenity he knew, every insult, in every and any language.

Sometimes, Race cried, and trembled and fantasized about someone, anyone, finding him. Jack, Spot, Specs, Finch, Romeo, hell, even the Devil and God, coming to take him to the next life. 

Anything but this.

At some point, Race lost track of anything going on around him. It was after Finch’s shirt lost its smell, and Race lost the only comfort he had. It was when he stopped caring, too tired, too hungry, too thirsty, too weak and helpless to have hope. He was in a half conscious daze, not aware of anything. 

He was barely aware when someone opened the crate up and picked him up, holding him so gently in their arms. He almost didn’t notice the quiet, pleading voice, begging him to hold on, to answer them, to open his eyes, to do anything.

He didn’t have the energy or the capacity to do something as complicated as responding to his surroundings. All he could do was hope they wouldn’t give up on him, but be sure that they would.

Everyone did eventually.

*****

Romeo was the first to realize Spot and Racetrack were soulmates, but to him, it had been obvious that they had something going on for months. He just didn’t realize they were soulmates until he noticed the bruises and scars on Spot’s arms matched Race’s perfectly.

He felt sympathy for the other newsie, and never pressed or asked questions when he sat next to Romeo and Race’s bed in silence as Romeo fussed over the unconscious boy. He had been in the “Room” for a week and a half, and wasn’t in good shape. Romeo had done his best to dress the wounds and ward off infection, but Race was running a high fever and hadn’t really woken up besides fever dreams in the three days he had been back.

On the other hand, the Manhattan newsies had two new additions. A now almost completely healthy Soda Pop and her older brother Georgie, who had been dubbed Strings. The two were almost constantly at Race’s side, only trusting a select few of them. 

(That list consisted of Race, Spot, Romeo, Crutchie, and Finch.)

The newises had set up a rotation of people to help cover Race and whoever was watching him that day. It was usually whoever got Soda and Strings to go sell with them, since they sold more and made extra. 

It was tough, but they were doing their best. It helped that Kloppman turned a blind eye to the fact that two of them were breaking the rules by staying in the building during the day. In fact, Romeo was pretty sure the almost gone pain medicine that Kloppman just happened to “find” in one of the backrooms was actually something the man bought for Race, not that Romeo was going to say anything.

It was around midday on the fourth day, a few hours after lunch, that Race finally stirred. The handful of newsies that had snuck up the fire escape to “hang out” in the boarding house between selling the morning and the evening papers were silenced, all staring at Race hopefully.

He opened his eyes and Romeo almost cried, fingers gently brushing Race’s dirty curls out of his face. “Hey,” he whispered and Race blinked at him slowly.

“Romeo?” He croaked, tears welling in his eyes.

“Yeah, it’s me, Racetrack. I’ve gottchu. You’se safe now, we’s in the boardin’ house.”

Racetrack slowly twisted his head to see the anxious, worried faces of Jack, Crutchie, Henry, Albert, Strings, and Soda.

“Racetrack?” Strings said, voice shaky and scared.

“’m o’ay, kiddo,” Racetrack murmured, smiling weakly. “See? I’s’o’ay.”

Soda slowly walked up to him, peering at him with a frown. “No, you ain’t,” she said, crossing her arms. “You’se all beat up an’ bloody. You’se lookin’ lots like Spot.”

Romeo stiffened, and he could see Race pale at the mention. Romeo looked at the other newsies to see Jack with his eyebrows furrowed, Albert and Henry exchanging wide-eyed looks, and Crutchie frowning slightly.

Race forced out a weak, rattling chuckle. “That so?” he said, his body starting to tremble.

Soda nodded, oblivious as she seemed rather interested in a beetle she picked up from the ground. “Yeah. Is you’se soulmates wit’ him?”

Romeo cleared his throat. “Soda, why don’tchu an’ Strings let that lil beetle outside, yeah?”

She frowned at him but shrugged, dragging her brother out with her.

The silence in the room was deafening, and Romeo finally sighed. “Okay, look. We all know now. That don’ change nothin’, do it? Race is still Race, and righ’ now, he don’ need none o’ this.”

Race stared up at Romeo like he had never seen him before and Romeo just gave him a tiny smile.

Jack cleared his throat. “I ain’t against nothin’, I is jist surprised is all.”

Albert swallowed hard. “I-if no one else has a problem wit’ it, neither do I. It none of me business.”

Henry bobbed his head in agreement. “Yeah. I’se s’pouse its kinda obvious now, ain’t it? Lookin’ back on it.” 

All heads turned to Crutchie, who looked like he had just had a realization. “That’s what Mush an’ Blink found out,” he breathed. “That’s why you ran, ain’t it? They found out you’se was sweet on each otha, an’ they spooked yah.”

Race started crying, trembling and sobbing as Romeo petted his hair, whispering reassurances. Jack looked at Crutchie, clearly upset that he hadn’t caught on before.

“Race, none of us would eva fault you’se or Spot fo’ that,” Jack said softly, shaking his head. “You’se family, we don’ care who yah soulmate is, it don’ change nothin’. Okay? Yah hear? It don’ matta none. We’s always gonna be here fo’ you.”

Race whimpered and nodded, pressing his face into Romeo’s stomach. Romeo let him cry, running his fingers through his hair and tried to comfort him the best he could. Jack looked at Albert and Henry and jerked his head to the door. They took the hint, leaving quietly to find Soda and Strings.

After a few moments, Race pulled away so he could look at the newsies. He looked exhausted, red puffy eyes and dirty, limp hair. He shivered and coughed weakly, grimacing at the pain that wracked through his thin body. He looked awful, and Jack never wanted him to look like that ever again, if he could help it.

Jack shuffled closer, slow and deliberate as he reached out to stroke his hair. He didn’t dare touch any of the bandages, too afraid to hurt Race, but that covered most of his body.

“Jack,” Race mumbled, looking at him. “Jack, ‘m so sorry,” he said, words slurring together in his exhausted state. 

“Hey, hey, it ain’t your fault.” Jack replied softly. “None of this was your fault. You have nothing to apologize for. Yah jist needs tah focus on bein’ better. A second in command is no use tah me if he’s still all sick an’ keeps openin’ his wounds, eh?”

Race nodded, eyes slipping closed as he laid his head on Romeo’s thigh. 

Crutchie smiled encouragingly. “Jist you wait, Race, you’se gonna be betta in no time.”

*****

It took Race another week to be able to keep anything beyond soup down. It was also around that time that he could start moving around again without crying from the pain in his back. It took another five days for him to be able to use Crutchie’s crutch to move downstairs to eat with the rest of the newsies. Spot, Sunshine, Poppy and Crunch were visiting that night to check in on everything and join in a secret money pool to get Race to a doctor to check out his ankle. Spot ended up spending the night, Race sleeping on top of his chest to let his back air out while he slept. 

Another two days before they had gotten enough money together to get an appointment with a doctor. The man, a Dr. Denton, followed Jack and Specs up the stairs of the boarding house to where Race was laying on his stomach on his bunk, arm and head hanging over the edge as he played poker with Mush, Blink, Sunshine, and Soda while Spot sat next to Race, watching silently. It looked like Race was winning, but, much to Jack’s surprise, Soda appeared to be following close behind. 

Jack clapped his hands together to get their attention. Six sets of eyes looked at him, and he smiled weakly. “We gots a visitor fo’ Racetrack,” he said quietly. 

Race sat up quickly, his face paling. “What is you talkin’ about, Jacky-boy? What the dickens is you talkin’ about, eh? I di’n’ ask fo’ no visita.” He swallowed and shifted self-consciously, looking at the doctor warily. “Who the hell is you?”

Denton smiled uneasily. “I’m Dr. De-”

“Docta? I don’ need no docta! What in the Devil- Doctas cost lotsa money, Jack! Monies we don’ got! What the hell you’se doin’? Race protested, glaring at Jack, who scowled. 

“Look, Racetrack,” he said, a steely tone in his voice. “I don’ care how upset you’se is wit’ me afta this, but you’se need a docta. You’se can barely walk usin’ a crutch, an’ we’s gotta knows if that is gonna be a long term ting.” He pursed his lips and sighed. “Spot, you tell ‘im, he won’ listen tah me none.”

Spot frowned but looked at Race silently, one eyebrow arched. Race’s face scrunched up in displeasure, and he went to cross his arms, but he moved too quickly, pulling on his back and making him hiss. Spot’s other eyebrow went up and Race let out a loud huff. “Fine, fine!” He snapped. “But I ain’t gonna like it none!”

Spot nodded and leaned back, casually spreading his leg out so it sat next to Race, who casually put a hand on his ankle. He squeezed anxiously as Denton came closer, trembling slightly but trying to stay straight-faced. Spot narrowed his eyes slightly in confusion and stayed alert, watching carefully.

If Denton noticed, he didn’t show it, being quiet and giving visual warning before touching Race. He quickly decided that Race’s ankle was broken, ignoring Race’s “Tell me somethin’ I don’ knows”. He said that a splint, heavy bandaging and bed rest for a few weeks while it healed would be best.

“Nuh-uh, Doc, that ain’t happening,” Race said, shaking his head. “I’ve already pushed it by bein’ here fo’ two weeks without workin’. I can’t afford no mo’ than that. I need tah be able tah work, an’ that means walkin’.”

Denton pressed his lips together. “Well, you’ll just have to deal with being bored during the day, won’t you?” He said condescendingly. 

“Well, I guess I’ll jist hafta deal wit’ bein’ dead then, won’ I?” Race mocked, free hand curled into a fist. “You’se don’ seem tah undastand, so let me makes it obvious. I don’ got no money. I’se livin’ on the charity of othas right now, but I can’ keep doin’ that much longa, ‘cause money’s runnin’ low. In fact, I’se sure that this lil vist of yours jist ran our funds dry. An’ yah knows what happens tah me when I ain’t got no mo’ money? I don’ get food, or a place to sleep. An’ in the shape I’se in, that’s certain death. So, you’se gonna tell me how’s I should go about movin’ around if I wants tah keep my ankle okay.”

The doctor looked annoyed and a little bit uncomfortable at have being called out. “Use a crutch if you have to,” he said curtly, pulling out a splint and some stiff, heavy bandages. “Keep off your foot as much as possible.”

The rest of the appointment was spent in near silence, only interrupted by Denton’s occasion instruction, or a pained noise from Race.

*****

The next morning, Poppy was the one who brought Race a pair of crutches, made from some old wooden dowels, two short wooden boards, and some canvas bags that provided padding. Nothing special, but Race found a tiny “Racetrack” carved into the handle of one of them.

He smiled when he saw it. “Thanks, Poppy. Did Spot make these?”

He smirked lazily, messing with his slingshot. “Yeah, stayed up all night ‘an’ everthin’. Don’t tell ‘im I tolds you though. I tolds ‘im I wouldn’.”

Racetrack smiled softly, rubbing his thumb over the engraving. “Di’n’ take much fo’ yah tah spill, did it?”

“I was plannin’ on tellin’ you’se anyways, Racer.” Poppy stretched the sling and snapped it against the post of one of the bunks. “Ain’t like Spot actually expected me tah keep my word.”

Race snorted. “Probably a good call,” he teased. 

Poppy playfully swatted at Race with his hat. “Ay, fuck off, will yah?”

Race grinned, and shooed him away with a wave of his hand as Poppy hovered. “I got this. I ain’t invalid.” He started pulling on his clothes quickly, excited to get back out into the swing of things. 

Poppy shrugged and leaned against the wall. “Yeah, but we’s goin’ tah the same place. Might as well wait fo’ yah. Sides, if you’se nice tah me, I may be able tah get us a ride ‘cross the bridge, eh?”

Race hmphed but allowed it, knowing just as well as Poppy did that he wouldn’t make it across the Brooklyn bridge if he walked. He pressed his lips together in annoyance as he tugged an extra sock over his injured foot, needing the extra layer to keep it warm since he couldn’t fit his shoe over the splint. He stood carefully, grimacing slightly as he tested out his crutches, nodding in satisfaction as they held his weight easily. 

“Alright, Poppy, let’s go,” Race said cheerfully. He started heading towards the door, slowly at first, but speeding up as he got the hang of it. Poppy followed close behind, swinging around an old chain instead of his slingshot now.

Race grinned at newsies they passed, most of them yelling encouragements and cheers as they saw him up and moving. Crutchie and Jack both grinned as they saw Race and Poppy. “Good tah see yah up an’ movin’!” Crutchie called to him.

“I dunno how yah do this every day, Crutch, this is tirin’. My arms already ache,” Race said jokingly. 

Crutchie laughed. “Yah get used to it afta a while.”

Race nodded and they moved on to the distribution. Weasel was already there, window open and selling papers. Poppy lightly shoved Race, forcing him to sit on the back of a wagon, and held out his hand. “Coins.”

Race handed over two quarters with a sigh, not bothering to protest. He knew he wouldn’t win, and he didn’t want to waste any more time.

As soon as Poppy got Race’s papers, Race reached out for them, ready to stow them in his bag. Poppy raised his eyebrow and swatted his hands away. “Bug off, squirt. Too heavy fo’ yah tah try to sneak ontah a trolley wit’. You’se ain’t exactly graceful.”

Race scowled. “Asshole,” he muttered, but conceded. “Let’s jist get goin’, or we’s gonna miss our customas.”

Poppy grinned, smile crooked and wild. “Let’s go then,” he nodded, leading the way down to the nearest trolley stop.

By the time they got to Sheepshead, Race was ready to curl up and never move again. His muscles were aching and cramping from the overexertion, and his poor chest was having a hard time catching his breath. He all but collapsed against the wall, sliding down to the ground with his crutches beside him, and morning sun shining down on him uncomfortably. The stifling scent of smog, rotting fish, beer, and sweat filled his lungs and he grimaced. It was overwhelming and Race wanted it to stop.

Poppy raised an eyebrow, frowning slightly. He shoved Race’s papes into his bag. “Well, at leas’ you’se gonna sell a lot if you’se can’t even get up.”

Race scowled and flipped him off. “Go botha someone else. You’se scarin’ off my costumas wit’ yah ugly puss.”

He snorted and saluted sarcastically. “Yeah, yeah, shut pan, I’s goin’.” Poppy looked at him once more before he stretched and walked away.

Race watched him leave silently before slowly getting to his feet, leaning heavily on the wall and his crutches. “Extra, extra!” he called, waving a folded paper around. “Three corpses found in Central Park!”

One of his regulars, a middle-aged Italian man paused a few yards away, twisting around to look at him. “Oh!” He said, walking over quickly. “You are back, I see- what happened, boy? You are injured!” He looked a little alarmed and worried as he took in his state. “You disappear and come back like this? No good, no good at all!”

“Ciao, signore Corvi, I’se alright, don’chu worry ‘bout it, si? I’se jist mixed up wit’ someone I shouldn’t’ve. Now, can I int’rest yah in a pape? They found bodies in Central Park, y’know.” Race brushed off, holding out a paper and avoiding the man’s eyes.

Mr. Corvi pressed his lips together and dug around in his pocket for a moment before pulling out two coins and a hard candy. “Here, figlio.” He said, taking the paper and pressing them into his hand. “It is, ah… Good to have you back, no?” With a final pat on his shoulder, Mr. Corvi hurried away.

Race smiled and opened his hand to take the candy, something Mr. Corvi gave him almost every time he bought a paper. He popped the candy in his mouth and was about to slip the pennies into his pocket when he realized something with a start.

He opened his hand and stared into it, mouth agape. Two shiny quarters sat in his palm. His head whipped up to look for Mr. Corvi, but he was already gone. A smile crossed his lips and he had to hold back tears. He had only sold one paper, and he already had enough for tomorrow’s papes. Mr. Corvi’ really was a kind, kind man.

By the time lunch came along, Race had sold all of his papers and had almost two dollars’ worth of change in his pocket. He was also beyond exhausted and his entire body ached. He limped over to a bench next to the docks and all but collapsed on it, muscles twitching every once in a while. He closed his eyes with his hat pulled over his face but he didn’t dare fall asleep, ears straining for any sound of anything coming to harm him and body as taunt as a bow.

He didn’t know how much time had passed, but it was enough for him to have gone into a half doze, still listening but not as much as he had been. So when footsteps came too close for comfort, Race shot up with a jolt, pulling his hat away, already reaching for his crutches in case he had to fight or flee. 

As soon as he realized who it was, however, he relaxed with a huff, a lazy, sheepish smile, and relieved eyes. “Hi, Spotty-boy,” he greeted, head tilted up like a flower to the sun.

Spot raised an eyebrow. To most, he would look as impassive and bored but Race could see the softness in the corner of his eyes, the way he tilted his head ever so slightly to the left, the relaxed way he held his shoulders, the tiny quirk of a smile hidden in the corner of his mouth. Things Race would never have noticed if he hadn’t spent years trying to beat others at poker and picked up how to read someone’s face like a book.

It could also be due to the fact that Race spent most of his time with Spot staring at him and trying to memorize every little bit about him.

“C’mon, Race. You can come nap in the lodgin’ house ‘til the evenin’ pape comes out,” he said gruffly, nudging his shoulder. “I’ll even go an’ get’chu some food fo’ when yah wake up.”

Race smiled, knowing full well that Spot was really asking Race to lay down with him for a few hours so Spot could hold him and check him over himself, reassuring himself that Racetrack really was alive and well.

He didn’t see a problem with that either, so he nodded, carefully pulling himself to his feet with a pained grimace. “Let’s go,” Race agreed.

Spot nodded, waiting for Race to go before he followed, walking just one step behind. 

So, yeah. More often than not, Race was covered in bruises. He had beaten and tossed around all of his life, but he kept getting right back onto his feet. Most of the bruises were his own, but he got a few from Spot too. 

A long time ago, he had claimed to himself that he didn’t want to meet his soulmate, and he locked away his thoughts and feelings for soulmates completely. 

But then the amazing and inevitable happened, and he met Spot, and they taught each other how to love and how to protect, and how to help. 

And Racetrack decided soulmates weren’t so bad after all.

**Author's Note:**

> i would die for race, soda, georgie, poppy, sunshine, crunch, henry, romeo, crutchie, and/or spot okay
> 
> i got all of the slang from this pdf: http://mess1.homestead.com/nineteenth_century_slang_dictionary.pdf
> 
> also, just so yall know, while researching petnames for this fic, i found out benjamin franklin had a daddy kink and i need to bleach my eyes
> 
> follow me at patrocool.tumblr.com 
> 
> you can also send me requests there
> 
> kudos make me smile, comments make my day. if yall request shit for this verse, i might make a series out of it.


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